


Love in a Warzone

by theshipstorulethemallwrites



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Allison Argent & Lydia Martin Friendship, Alternate Universe - Historical, BAMF Lydia Martin, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Long-Distance Relationship, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Violence, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 05:10:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9642032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theshipstorulethemallwrites/pseuds/theshipstorulethemallwrites
Summary: Lydia Martin takes a once in lifetime chance to join the First Lady on a month long trip to London in the midst of World War II. There she meets Stiles Stilinski and Sergeant Scott McCall. This story takes the two star crossed lovers from the battlefield to the White House and everywhere in between as the bonds of romance is tested in the war for their very lives.





	1. I'll Use You as a Focal Point

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, this work could not have been completed with my amazing beta, [Sjaan](http://readymachine.tumblr.com)  
> Thank you for all your support, your help and your encouragement  
> [Kate](http://rememberiloveyou.tumblr.com) and [Giulia](http://lydias-martin.tumblr.com) are both some of the most amazingly talented people I've ever met and I'm so grateful for the [amazing](http://lydias-martin.tumblr.com/post/157066036310/love-in-a-warzone-by-the-ships-to-rule-them-all) [pieces](http://rememberiloveyou.tumblr.com/post/157082853441/im-crying-she-marvels-and-stiles-chokes-out-a) they have created  
> Thanks to [Ronnie](http://songof-light.tumblr.com/) for the beautiful title card
> 
> Also thank you to everyone who organized this massive project you all rock!! A special thanks to [Rachel](http://rongasm.tumblr.com) for encouraging me to do this in first place and jump starting this idea
> 
>  

January 2nd, 1942, New York City. 4:38 pm

 

Lydia Martin absentmindedly noticed the sunset as she pulled out her notebook, her strawberry blonde hair flying out from beneath her knit cap as she rushed through the crowd. She wasn’t looking to say goodbye to a lover or a father or a brother; there were no men in her life. What her boss, her fat lazy editor, Mr. Edwards, had instructed her to do was an human interest piece on the women left behind. She’d taken the assignment because she knew she could ask these women about war work and that was something that Mrs. Roosevelt would be very interested in hearing about. Mrs. Roosevelt, the reason she had gotten the job at the New York Times in the first place, was a fierce advocate for women workers and Lydia knew that they were needed now more than ever. She was personally interested in how the mothers were reacting to their sons going off to war. So many of the profiles talked about girlfriends or sisters but Lydia found the mothers fascinating because the war would shape these boys and they’d come back and be different people. 

Her mind whirled from the story she was about to write to laughter as she heard a guy, dressed smartly in a uniform, shouting, “Would anyone suck me off? I’m about to go die.” 

Lydia smirked. She wouldn’t be caught dead in an alley with that man even if he was handsome and exactly her type but she knew some girls from the Clarion Ladies Academy who would have absolutely dropped to their knees. She knew guys who worked with her at the Times who had used the same excuse to try to get the girls they’d been panting after in their beds. The war was creating desperate teenagers out of grown men and women who were looking for sex before all the eligible partners were separated by oceans and time. It was months like this where Lydia was thankful for the arrangement she’d made with her roommate, Allison, who was currently working in the factories and rising through the ranks. She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t realize she was walking into someone until she’d already done so. 

“I’m so sorry! Let me help you up,” She exclaimed, extending a hand to the stranger who was now sprawled out on the pavement. She hadn’t fallen, thankfully. She was wearing her best skirt, navy blue and just short enough to tease, as she planned on going dancing with Allison after her interviews were finished. 

“It’s fine, Ma'am,” The stranger replied, taking her hand. As she helped him up she noticed that he had a strong grip and he was in uniform. He also had freckles dusting his face. That made her laugh inwardly a little because she’d gotten drunk with Allison months ago and had called freckles “face stars.” This guy had face stars.  His cap was slightly askew, revealing windblown brown hair that looked perfect for her to run her fingers through. 

He raised an eyebrow at the pen tucked behind her ear, like he was surprised it hadn’t fallen.

“Are you a reporter?” he asked her, catching sight of  her notebook as he dusted himself off. “What are you writing about? Has anyone mentioned me? I’m Stiles by the way. What’s your name?” 

Lydia grinned at him.

“Yes, women and the emotions they feel at the men leaving, no, nice to meet you, and Lydia.” 

She took a deep breath after talking. She’d only met one person who could talk as quickly as Stiles and that was a girl named Rachel at school. Talking with her always left Lydia winded. 

“Good to meet you, Lydia. I’ll leave you to your crying women and heartbroken girls, then,” Stiles smirked, the laugh clear in his voice as he shook her hand, which still gripped in his. 

Lydia laughed. Stiles was charming, attractive (which never hurt), and a soldier. More than that, her reporter senses were tingling and the scuffed shoes, the fast talk, and the keen eyes confirmed there was more to this man.   

“If I could, I’d interview you. I think you’d be a hit.” 

Stiles grinned widely and _oh_ , Lydia thought, this is what it’s like to find someone beautiful. 

“What did you just say?” Stiles asked. 

Lydia shook her head, hoping she did not just say that last bit aloud. She tossed him an airy grin, one that if you knew her well would know is fake. She just didn’t want to leave the conversation. This was the most fun she’d had with a random stranger in a while and her job required her to meet lots of them. A random guy that was attractive, had a past lurking behind those brown eyes, and made her laugh? Jackpot.  She was just sorry Stiles was going off to war. She would have invited him to go dancing and maybe come back to her place.  She was reminded of her job when a woman ran past them, crying. She wasn’t here to make eyes at a stranger, she was here to get a story. Just like that, the crowd suddenly came back into view and she was abruptly reminded of how many people were packed into the harbor. 

“Nothing. But I better get going.”

“Of course.” Stiles nodded, checking his watch. “I have to go as well.  My ship leaves in 15 minutes.”

“Well, I guess this is goodbye then. I hope to see you when this dreadful conflict ends,” Lydia admitted, wondering why it was taking so long for her to say goodbye. She was usually so good with goodbyes. 

“Bye,” Stiles said, grinning crookedly at her before turning and disappearing into the crowd. She stood still for a minute, trying to find where he’d gone but she couldn’t. She sighed, turning her focus back to her subjects. Like Stiles had aptly put, she was looking for crying women and heartbroken girls. She maneuvered through the crowd to two tall blondes, still waving goodbye to a man on one of the ships. She waited a few minutes before quietly asking if they could speak to her for a piece for the New York Times. After she’d interviewed several women she glanced up at the ship and saw what looked Stiles up on the starboard side. He was standing looking at the Statue of Liberty, like he wanted to memorize her. She grinned as she turned back to the brunette women she was interviewing. Her attention shifted back to the war at home, away from the one that the boys were leaving their home behind to fight in.

 

\--------

 

Stiles Stilinski stood at the bow of the ship, now crowded and chaotic as his fellow soldiers waved goodbye. While they were all looking down at the people they were leaving behind, he kept his eyes on the Manhattan skyline. His father hadn’t come to see him off. His father loved him, yes, but he was a cop for the city and currently working so they had already said their goodbyes. His mother, well, she wasn’t able to say goodbye to him, but he didn’t like dwelling on that. He looked at the sky, cast in a burning golden glow and bade farewell to the city where he knew the shortcuts through alleyways, the best diners, and the secret spots. His home. The only one he’d ever known. He glanced down, absentmindedly, and spotted a shock of color amidst the mourning grey and covered heads. The red head he’d ran into earlier was focused not on the ship or the the soldiers, but the women whom she was talking to. 

_Lydia, what a pretty name for a gorgeous gal,_ Stiles thought to himself, looking away from the crowd. _No, damn it Stiles, just forget about her. You’re leaving soon anyway._  

He looked down, still trying to find Lydia but she’d disappeared in the crowd. _Why are you so attached to this girl? She was beautiful, yes, but you have met plenty beautiful girls in the past 22 years you’ve been alive. No, this girl, this reporter, you’ve bumped into was clearly more than a just a pretty face._  

Shaking his head, Stiles moved beyond his tearful yet stone-faced brothers to below deck. He figured he’d get a better bunk if he got there before the stampede. As he reached the bunk room, which took up most of below deck, he heard whistling. Clearly someone else had had the same thought. As his eyes adjusted to the low light, he saw a dark haired man. 

He’d never mastered the art of walking quietly. Hopefully that was something he’d learn in the army. Otherwise, he would die the first time he was sent out to combat. So, as he drew closer the man, the guy tensed and turned around. 

“Hello, I’m Scott McCall,” the man said, tense posture at odds with his welcoming grin. 

Stiles nodded, relaxing. 

“Heya, I’m Stiles Stilinski. Mind if I take the bunk under yours?” 

McCall nodded. Both of them began unpacking their meager possessions, Stiles observed that his bunkmate had pictures of him with a woman, clearly his mother if the similarity in their coloring was any indication, and a close-up of a laughing brunette. 

He was in the middle of putting up the one photo he had of his entire family, one of the photos after his birth as he heard McCall say, “Stilinski, eh? They ship you back home?” 

He immediately started getting angry. This again? He knew that people would react badly but goddamnit people! He was fighting a war for his country, same as the rest of them—but then he noticed McCall’s tone: curious, not aggressive. 

Stiles let out a laugh. McCall had been watching him warily. 

“Well, I guess,” He responded.

Any further conversation the two of them could have had was abruptly cut off as about a hundred men came climbing down the ladders and they were lost to the sounds of boys becoming men as they settled in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from I Found by Amber Run


	2. Hear a Storm’s Coming In

September 18th, 1942, New York City. 7:30 am

 

Lydia yawns, curling deeper into Allison’s shoulder as she tries to go back to sleep. She stays still, her mind racing even as her body aches for the warmth of her roommate and the comfort of her bed. After 15 blessed minutes, she flings herself from the bed and glances at the note pinned beside the headboard reminding her that she needs to be at the White House by 2pm. She glances at the ticking clock right behind the note which reads 7:30am. Nodding decisively, she goes to get dressed, pulling on a red top and a long brown skirt as she sings along to the radio that she’d turned on before opening up her closet. As much as she loves music, Allison cannot wake up without it. She turns to the bed, a pale face barely peeking out from underneath the covers. 

“Ally, you have to get up. You have work in an hour.”

The bed mumbles something and Lydia sighs. This part of the morning routine is familiar. She walks over and shakes the bed. 

“Als, come on.” 

“Fine.” Allison groans, stretching her arms. She sits up, her curls thrown out atop her shoulders like a waterfall. Lydia nods as she turns back to the little kitchen area where she begins making eggs.

“What time will you be home tonight?” Allison asks, voice sounding muffled as she throws on her work uniform, overalls and a grey top. 

“I’m meeting the first lady in Washington at 2, so I suspect I’ll be back by 7 at the earliest.” Lydia replies, grabbing plates and putting the eggs on them. She stabs a fork in the yellow and white breakfast as Allison ties her hair up in a messy bun and sits down. The two of them eat in comfortable silence. Allison washes up as Lydia searches for her reporter bag. 

Soon after, Allison has to leave for work on the outskirts of the city and Lydia is left alone. 

Lydia’s comfortable with loneliness, in a way that even a year ago she never dreamed she would be. The war had made all her old haunts ghostly and empty. She almost misses the rush of the city. She didn’t think she would. She moved here shortly before her 10th birthday when her father got a job working for Goldman Sachs, but it had never felt like home until she meet Allison right after her debut. 

Sighing a little, she glances out at the city before settling down to do some writing on new fashion trends that have come out of the clothing rationing. Her long skirt is a remnant of an age that is gone now. She knows that one day she’ll have to shorten and donate the fabric, but for now she can wear it when she goes to the White House. As she finishes the article she glances at the clock. She has just enough time to drop this off at the post office before she has to catch the train down to Washington.

Shutting off the lights of her third floor apartment, she pulls on her blue peacoat. The coat makes a wonderful swishing sound as she walks out to the cold September air. New York feels colder than it has before. Maybe it’s the lack of people but whatever it is, Lydia shoves her gloved hands in her pockets as she walks towards Grand Central. She reaches her usual 11:30am train with a sandwich, just as the last call rings out. 

She decides that she might as well take the time to look at the country she calls home. The reports from Europe aren’t that positive and she wants to memorize the beauty of the countryside and the way the trees look like they’re dancing, limbs naked before the elements yet covered in snow. That’s one thing the war took away from her; her lazy Sundays in Central Park where she watches families play soccer and have snowball fights. A reminder to her that no matter the hell she reports in the paper, the depravity of humanity, that there still exists an inherent goodness and love in the world. She misses that. The lack of it has made her a little colder, she reflects as she reads the headlines of the newspaper thrown carelessly beside the sleeping man across from her. All about the war, about the dead, and the optimism being sent out from the White House by people like her even though she never believes them. It scares her sometimes, how depressing her mind is. How the darkness that surrounds the world has somehow infiltrated her mind. But at least she has these train rides and, more than that, she has the group of women awaiting her when she gets to her destination. 

Walking into the White House never stops being a surreal experience. It does not matter that she’s come through the gate so many times that the guards know her name, she always feels small as she walks through the doors to the East Room. The portraits of all the great men stared down at her as she strode through the halls. It’s pure magic, this house, this place of stories that become legends and ones that never get told except in diaries that get forgotten about. 

Entering the room that has become a second office to her during the Roosevelt Presidency, she grins as she nods hello to Lorna Hitchcock, the former AP reporter. It was a badly kept secret among Mrs. Roosevelt’s press corps that Hick and Eleanor were in love with each other and sometimes Lydia sketches the story about their love, how it was all consuming and adoration and secret rendezvous. A love story like theirs deserves to be written, in her mind. There are times during press conferences a year ago when Lydia was too distracted by their interactions that she forgot to take notes. She’s always been a hopeless romantic, though she’s rather cynical about her chances at finding happiness. She’ll always have Allison and she knows how to keep her best friend happy and sated if they never find men that match them. 

Her musings are brought to a halt when Mrs. Roosevelt enters the room. Lydia admires the way she walks, like she knows she has something important to say and nothing is going to stop her from saying it. It’s the walk of a queen.

The First Lady walking in causes Lydia to look around the room for the first time and she realizes to her surprise that there are only two members of the female-only press corps. She’s about to ask what is going on and where everyone else is when Eleanor begins speaking.

“The president, after much conversation, has decided to allow me to go visit England and I would like to take the three of you with me to document my journey. I have already taken the liberty of speaking with your editors-in-chief and they are thrilled to have you ladies join me. So, it’s up to you.” 

Wow, London. A place that had actually been struck by war and bombs and wasn’t just waiting, yearning for news from across the water. Lydia wouldn’t, couldn’t, wish war on anyone, but this fear that had taken residence inside her heart and never left was just going to eat at her until she was empty.

Maybe, just maybe, going on this trip would save her from herself. And it allowed to get up close and personal with the First Lady and further understand what was going on where the war was actually being fought.

Lydia knew that the reporter from the Washington Post, Nancy Elliott, would have to decline. Nancy’s sister-in-law had just gotten gravely ill and Nancy was taking care of her niece. However, she was unsure of the status of the writer from the San Francisco Chronicle, Abigail Sorkin. But Abigail’s excited nod confirmed that she would join the trip and Lydia felt a smile spring to life. Abigail was an appropriate partner in this journey.

“I can go.”

“Excellent. I know you’ll notice things that I would not, Ms. Martin. You remind me of my husband in that way,” Mrs. Roosevelt responded, smiling warmly at Lydia. She felt as if all the darkness in the world suddenly evaporated. The First Lady just said that she, Lydia Martin, reminded her of the President of United States. There was no greater compliment.

“Well, Ms. Martin, Ms. Sorkin, I’ll need to meet you after this press conference to discuss exactly what I expect of you. Hitch, would you invite the others in.”

  
Hitch nods, moving from where she is leaning against the wall and opening to door to invite the other members of the Women’s Press Corps in for their usual Friday briefing from the First Lady.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from Anchor by Novo Amor


	3. Echoes in the Shots Ring Out

October 5th 1942, London. 7:45 pm

 

Another day, another dead friend.

This is what being at war does. It sucks away everything you hold dear and leaves only bones and blood. 

Stiles feels like everyday he is being forced to harden himself. The warfront leaves no time for jokes or laughter because as he enters into camp he checks into medical, just to be sure that Scott isn’t dead. 

Scott McCall is his best friend and he never could have imagined that the man he’d met all those months ago on the ship bound for war would become his anchor. Scott is not built for war, but his leadership skills were unsurpassed and he was quickly rising in the ranks. Stiles, on the other hand, is surprisingly good at war. His past work trying to solve random cases in New York allowed him to plan ahead and be the strategic expert matching Scott’s leadership skills. They trusted each other in ways that only came about from understanding each other at a level that went beyond the bonds forged in war. 

It also helps, Stiles reflects, that Scott is quite possibly the sanest person in camp because his girl drove tanks for the army. Lucky bastard. Man, if Malia could be a soldier she’d take over camp and they’d be beating the Nazis by now. That girl was fierce and strong and from the way Scott talks about her, incredibly kind. He’d met Malia Tate once, it was one of the most memorable moments he’d had yet because she drove a tank right into camp, pulled to a stop and hopped out. She’d then grabbed Scott from the middle of a conversation with his superior and kissed him. Scott’s face, wow, it was pure joy in a way that Stiles hadn’t seen in months. 

People were happy when they got letters, sure, but it was always tinged with a sort of bitterness. Life was moving on for people back home and Stiles and his fellows were stuck in a cycle of blood and guns and nothing else. 

Sure, Stiles thought, the environment made going off to battle a change of pace but it was repetitive and fighting for his country is fine but he’d found himself adrift lately. 

Scott suddenly burst into the tent, interrupting his sadorinic thoughts. 

“Come on, we’ve been called to the front. We have a unit now.” 

“We have a unit? Scott, when did we get a unit? What does it mean that we have a unit?” 

Scott sighs. Stiles knows his friend was annoyed with the fact that he clearly didn’t care enough to know the military terminology. 

“Stiles. Both of us got promoted. I’m the Sergeant of a unit and you’re my second.” 

Stiles jumps up from his rather pathetic cot and high fived Scott. The two of them beginning their choreographed handshake that ends with them both spitting on the ground and laughing. Scott slings an arm around Stiles’s shoulders. 

“Come on, let’s go meet the rest of our unit.” 

“Our unit. That almost sounds like we’re talking about kids.” 

“No, Stilinski. Like I have told you multiple times, I’m not marrying you. I’m marrying Lia.” 

“Right, because you are the lucky SoB who has someone.” 

“You’ll find someone someday. If anyone deserves it, it’s you.” 

“You say the nicest things to me, dear.” 

The two of them stroll up to the eight men they are apparently in charge of, laughing like lunatics. 

“Alright Soldiers. I am Sergeant Scott McCall and this is my second and head strategist Stiles Stilinski. Please introduce yourselves and your role.” 

A tall, bearded, dark-haired man steps forward. 

“My name is Derek Hale. Weapons expert.” 

A muscular black man speaks next. To Stiles there seemed to be an unspoken arrangement for how they introduced themselves as the last was a blond haired boy who had clearly just arrived from home. 

They have many different personalities on their squad. From the blue-eyed art specialist called Jackson whose aloofness betrayed a need to prove himself to their medic, a kind man that Scott had met during training who only went by Deaton and was several years older than the rest of the team. 

Stiles listens with half an ear to Scott explaining what their mission is: to follow the men who were shooting down the spy planes and see if they could find anything at all that might be useful for the cause. 

Useful, _sure_. Why the army thought having a group of eleven men, combat trained and jittery for blood, going out and searching through scraps was a good idea was beyond even Stiles’s comprehension.

 

\---------

 

As they trudged back in the dead of night, Stiles couldn’t help but think that he had been right. They found nothing in the Nazi’s plane. The technology had been destroyed by the bombs used to shoot him from the sky and from the burning wreckage all they’d gotten was a large inhalation of smoke. 

“I’m tired of sitting here, waiting for them to find us. I wanted to fight.” 

Until the words finish spilling from his mouth, Stiles doesn’t quite realize they are coming from him. 

He’s restless and aimless. Scott wanders over to him and grips his arm as he nods once. Scott, this boy who is now a man, a _leader_ , understands exactly what he isn’t saying. 

Stiles wants to have something to fight for the way Scott does. He misses feeling an emotion other than emptiness. 

The rest of the men look at him in sympathy as Stiles glances up to see the moon just visible behind the trees. It’s beautiful and quiet in the night, but then he looks back. Sees the inferno raging in the background consuming the plane. They really should have put it out, but none of them had brought more than a gallon of water for the 2 hour long trek there and back so it would just keep raging on. Stiles was sure he’d come here in a month and the forest would be gone.  
But, he thinks, lips twitching into a grin, at least something has a fire that’s being fed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from Battlefield by Srvcina


	4. Written in Your Bones

October 24th  1942, New York City. 7:15 am

 

Lydia walks in the room, red hair windswept and her flower patterned dress falling off her shoulder. She grins as she spots Abigail, a writer she only know from reputation even after spending months together as the Woman's White House Press Corps. 

“Hello,” She says, a smirk playing on her lips as she hears the noise of the trains blaring from below.

“Hi,” Abigail responds, glancing around a little nervously. Lydia knew that Abigail didn’t use the train often because she lives in DC and doesn’t really commute.

“Nice day,” She comments. Lydia knows she’s terrible at small talk, but she knows that she has to try. She has to get to know Abigail. They are going to London together, after all.

“Nice day,” She hears someone say.

She turns to look at Abigail, who has turned away from her and is looking out the window. So clearly she hadn’t spoken. But then Abigail speaks, voice lifting as she observes the grey clouds. 

“Might rain?”

Lydia joins Abigail, arms brushing against each other as she looks out the window. The city looks almost gleaming, but the grey clouds block out some of the light. This, of course, works with Lydia’s mood. The darkness seems to be erasing light everywhere these days. 

“Might,” She whispers, looking out at the skyscrapers that seem to be daring the world to strike them down.

“Later,” She adds, exchanging a grin with Abigail. By the time it rains they’d be long gone, unlike the poor souls who would have to return home tired and wet.

“Later,” Abigail confirms, grabbing her hand and pulling her away from the window. Apparently it was obvious that Lydia was getting lost in her dark thoughts. The two women wound up sitting by the magazine rack. Lydia smiles brightly. She loves seeing her name on the byline. Abigail pulls out the San Francisco Chronicle, reading over the local news that she had missed while living in DC. 

After a few minutes of amicable silence, the only sounds coming from the flipping of the newspapers, Lydia felt the need to say something.

“I live near here,” She says wistfully, recalling coming back from long days at the White House and being able to scurry home to Allison’s arms.

“Oh,” Abigail replies, sounding a bit bemused. Even though Lydia and Abigail have been sharing topics and space for months, this is most Lydia has ever divulged to anyone in the Corps. 

“Real close,” She nods.

Abigail offers her a grin. She’s about to reply, probably something about her home in San Francisco. She never gets the chance as their attentions shift when they hear a teenage girl, bundled up and clutching a boy’s arm, shout, in tears, “Really!” 

“Believe me,” The guy whispers, tears in his eyes as he sinks on his knees in front of the blonde girl. He quivers as he reaches to grasp her hands, tracing her palm with his thumb. 

“Believe me,” he whispers again, sounding heartbroken. 

A dam seems to break between the two teenagers because suddenly they are kissing, holding on to each other with all their might. Like the other one’s kiss is the only thing keeping them grounded to this earth. 

Lydia itches to write the scene. This tale of two lovers brimming with potential, only to be pulled apart by the terror of war. 

They pull apart and the girl looks into the boy’s soulful brown eyes and lets out a wail. The conversation grows quieter as the boy draws the girl into his arms with the only words Lydia hears are “Belief”, “Yes”, and “No”. The words were sobbed out between kisses and face stroking. 

It was a horrifying scene and Lydia knows that being witness to personal tragedy made public would only be more common when they got to London. 

“No,” Abigail murmurs, responding to her unasked question about if she was ready to stand witness to moments like this on a daily basis. They sit for several moments, silent observers of a goodbye that would remain vivid in their memories. 

“Yes!” Lydia exclaims, breaking their silent vigil as she notices that their train has finally arrived. 

As they board the train Lydia hears a chorus of “Goodbye, goodbye.”

Everyone is saying goodbye to loved ones and as the train left the station Lydia whispers her own goodbye to the city she calls home.

 

\-----------

 

October 24th, 1942  London. 5:25 pm

 

She itches to write. That’s the only thing that has crossed her mind ever since she, Abigail, and the First Lady stepped off the plane to stormy London. The beauty of the city is almost overshadowed by the scenes of war.

Everywhere Lydia looks she sees the faces of people too thin, too sad, but so strong. She looks behind her to the rolling hills and the ocean crashing into the shore, then she turns to face forward and all she sees is bombed out homes, shattered windows, and overgrown plants. It’s horrific and all too real.

The scene she’d witnessed yesterday between the lovers being torn apart feels foreboding as she looks out the window to see if she can spot any children.

She can’t.

It’s the early evening and she can’t see any children outside.

This is what war does, she reflects. War makes us afraid and brave in equal measure. It transforms children into adults who grow up too quickly and assume responsibility far too soon and transforms adults into children who are terrified at every loud sound, who only wish for the warmer days. She quickly jots the line on her notepad before turning to look at the First Lady. 

Eleanor is staring straight ahead, eyes taking in everything as she asks the ambassador, Mr. Winant, questions about the state of the country and the plan for the next several days. 

They finally arrive at the Palace and Lydia feels as if she’s been hit with days of exhaustion all at once. Being here, surrounded by guards with muskets and other weapons of war, with the maps covering the stately rooms; all it does is remind her of how much she has to fear. 

She thanks God that she kept her father’s name after he died when she was ten. Being Lydia Rothenberg on this trip, would have been a nightmare she can’t even begin to imagine. She  looks out at the empty streets, the broken windows, the terrified faces and wants to scream: 

 _You couldn’t save my people. You didn’t care enough to try when we begged. You still think we deserve this. Why should I write about your sorrows, your fear when mine gets forgotten. Why should I write your story when you erase me and mine from the narrative?_  

She knows she has a job but every step she takes feels as though her heart is being pierced by tiny knives.  Lydia is so lost in her thoughts that she doesn’t notice that the rest of the party is several feet ahead of her until the First Lady calls over her shoulder.

“Ms. Martin, do keep up.” 

Lydia hurries to catch up with the others and falls swiftly into conversation with Abigail about what they plan on writing. 

She takes in the sights and sounds of London over the next few days. A memorable moment was witnessing the joy on Mrs. Roosevelt’s face when she saw her son, Elliot, again for the first time in months and hearing about his experience in the army.  But none of this stops the constant fear from stewing in her mind, she took this trip to get away from her darkness, not be confronted with more it. She hides it well but she notices every morning that the shadows under her eyes look darker.

 

\------

 

October 27th 1942, London. 2:15 pm

 

The three of them are meeting with the Women’s Auxiliary Corps when Lydia finds herself drawn to a willowy brunette with strong forearms, short hair, and sad eyes. There is a longing in her expression that has Lydia intrigued.

“Hi,” She says, sitting down next to the woman whose hands have calluses, clearly a driver of tanks in the war. The woman reminds her of Allison a bit. They have the same strength, the same defiance in their spines that says I earned my place. 

“Hey,” The woman responds, her voice raspy like she’d been smoking. Lydia notices an accent immediately. 

“Where are you from?” She asks, tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear from where it had fallen from her braid. 

“Chicago. I’m Malia. And you are?” Malia responds, turning her brown eyes to Lydia’s green ones.

“Lydia. I’m a reporter with the New York Times.”

“Oh. Fancy.” Malia comments wryly and Lydia laughs. She’s struck with the sad thought that she can’t remember the last time she laughed until her belly ached. It must have been with Allison, but she can’t remember when that was. Allison has been so busy lately and Lydia is so, so proud of her best girl but she misses the way they used to be. 

Malia sees a man standing by Abigail and can barely suppress a laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Lydia asks, curious about what the man in a smartly dressed uniform had done to make her new friend giggle so.

“You see that man over there. The one talking to curly haired girl?” Malia says, nodding to Abigail smiling at the man in the corner of the room, both of them holding glasses of whatever alcohol the king had ordered.

“Yes.” Lydia responds. “What about him?”

“So that is Theo. He’s a jackass and he used to work with my boyfriend’s squad sometimes, but then he did something stupid and I have never seen Scott so pissed. I mean, we did have great sex that night but anyway. I could have beat him up but I didn’t and now he is super terrified of me.”

“Really?” Lydia asks, now even more interested in getting to know this girl.

“Oh, yes. Let me prove it.”

With that Malia gets up and saunters over to Abigail and Theo. She throws an arm around Lydia’s fellow reporter and Malia’s grin is almost feral as she looks at Theo. The man glances between the two women, frowning slightly before his eyes find Malia’s face. She raises an eyebrow at him, tapping her foot, and he turns away to go talk to another woman. Lydia cracks up and Malia turns back to the couch where they were sitting with a grin.

“You are one intimidating lady, Malia,” Lydia says. Malia just grins.

“Yeah, everyone in my boyfriend’s unit is afraid of me. Except his second-in-command, who just goes along with my antics because we both think Scott needs to loosen up a little.”

“Tell me more about this romance in war. How did the two of you meet? How often do you get to see him? How does it work?” Lydia asks, pulling out her notebook and sitting up a little straighter.

Malia laughs.

“Ok. Ms. I-Want-A-Story. We met during college, actually. Well, it was his first year and I was touring the school and there was just an immediate connection. It was as though we’d known each other in a different life, which was really scary because it made it so we fell in love really quickly and then the draft came. Scott got drafted about 3 years after we met and I knew I was not the type of girl who could sit around just waiting for him to come home to me. Because he wouldn’t really be coming home, you know? We’d both become such different people that we wouldn’t have worked anymore had I not come here.”

Lydia nods, understanding where Malia is coming from. She had talked to several women workers for months gathering profiles for the Times, and it was clear that one of the chief worries was that they wouldn’t recognize or be able to reconnect with their boyfriends or husbands.

“And as you can clearly tell, I’m not the type of person to do nothing when someone I love is risking his life because he’s a noble ass. He was drafted but he would have signed up anyway because he is basically Captain America. So I signed up for the Corps a week after he was shipped off to Basic and we were reunited in April when I was transferred to the London unit from Glasgow. “

Lydia raises an eyebrow gesturing for Malia to continue.

“It’s hard to say if we have easier then the couples who are separated though. Because I may have him in my arms and feel his body next to mine nearly every night but I also can see the toll the war has taken on him. I’m watching the boy I fell in love with slip away with every single mission and I see Scott becoming a man I always knew he would be. It’s going too quickly and it hurts because I see everyone around us growing colder and harsher in the face of war.”

“I relate to that last bit,” Lydia admits softly, drawing her knees closer to her chest. 

Malia nods and moves to say something else but suddenly they are interrupted by Mrs. Roosevelt.

“Ladies, I’m afraid we must be off, but I am sure we will see some of you when we visit the troops in few days.”

Lydia pulls Malia into a hug and shoves a piece of paper into her hand.

“That has my address on it, feel free to write me.”

“I’m sure I’ll see you in a few days but thanks.”

And just like that Lydia, Abigail and the First Lady are alone. And Lydia is struck by a terrible longing welling up inside her. Abigail is the youngest person in the Press Corps and would probably go out and get a drink and a fuck. Whereas she is 25, a graduate of Wellesley College, and a successful writer for the New York Times, yet she doesn’t want to just have a warm bed for comfort—she wanted _more._ She wants something like what Malia had described: that sense of trust, of connection.  

She spends the night writing as she listens to the First Lady charm the room. Why Mrs. Roosevelt believed she lacks charisma is beyond her. As she settles in for bed she’s struck with a sense of fear. A great chasm seems to have opened once she entered London, a fear that is nearly swallowing her whole and burying itself deep in her bones. She fights the shakes as she tries to drift off to an uneasy sleep, the sounds of sirens and planes playing outside her window and in her dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from The Sun by Frida Sundemo


	5. See the Future in Your Eyes

November 3rd 1942, Just outside of London. 2:30pm

 

The First Lady was visiting camp today. Everyone knew that it was only a matter of time before they were visited and as a result, camp was cleaner than Stiles had ever seen it.

The boys had all taken the time to brush their hair, wash their uniform shirts, and clean their faces. Liam, the youngest in their unit, always  _ looked _ young, but as Stiles saw Scott straighten the kid’s shirt he was struck by the fact that Liam was not even in college. Hell, the kid hadn’t even applied yet.

Scott had spent much of the time during their travels to stakeouts bemoaning the fact that he never finished college and now that’s he has become this person — a hardened warrior — he wants to change his major from psychology to either history or politics. Stiles had always wanted to go into detective work and be a private eye, but the war had opened up his eyes to the value of police work. He had talked with Scott a lot about the future,  _ if  _ they’ll get a future. He’s already agreed to be the best man at what is going to be the party of the century: the McCall-Tate wedding. That was something he was very excited to do when the war finally ended. It felt like an eternity of bloodshed and decay. Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Stiles stands with the rest of the men, slightly behind Scott, as Eleanor Roosevelt walks in. 

The First Lady steps out of her car to cheers and enthusiastic greetings from General Eisenhower. The General tips his cap and offers an arm to Eleanor Roosevelt, and wow, Stiles is about to  _ meet _ Mrs. Roosevelt.  His attention is suddenly drawn to the ladies walking out of the car, to the redhead with her head down and a pen tucked behind her ear. 

A pen tucked behind her ear…

The _ reporter _ . 

The one he had almost managed to forget. The girl who had ignited something in him that he had never felt before — something that he had convinced himself meant nothing to him because he has refused to feel.

She glances around, studying the barracks, the men, the targets set up in the distance, the smell of gunpowder. Stiles notices how her eyes sweep over all the men over and over again, focusing on their eyes, their clothes, the way they seem to fidget under her and the First Lady’s critical gaze. It is only on her third pass that she locks eyes with him. She stills, green eyes gazing into his as though she’s drinking him in. Her lips part as she looks him up and down and a shiver rushes through Stiles’s body. 

It’s like no one else in the world exists but them, the entire universe narrowed down to the way she is looking at him. He understands why people describe the first sight of a beautiful women like they’ve been shot with an arrow because every single feeling he has suppressed and buried down has come bubbling back up as he stares into her eyes. She’s beautiful, hair pulled back into braid — he’s reminded of the memory of seeing her on the dock of New York and wanting to tuck the strand that had fallen out. 

The First Lady finally reaches their unit. Stiles feels like it has been both a second and an eternity. Derek reaches out to poke his side as he notices that the First Lady is grinning at Scott, the words between them slowly flowing to a stop.

“Hello Ma’am,” Stiles stammers out, his heart racing. “I’m Stiles Stilinski. Thanks for being here.” 

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Stilinski. Like I said to Segernet McCall, I should be thanking you for the service all of you have been doing for our country.”

Stiles wants to pinch himself. The reporters, the redhead beauty and the curly haired brunette follow Mrs. Roosevelt, taking notes and observing them. The First Lady nods to the rest of the men and Liam’s barely contained excitement nearly makes him burst into laughter. Scott is looking back and forth between him and the reporters with poorly disguised amusement and Derek, as their third, is catching on quick. He almost groaned aloud when he realizes just how much ribbing he’ll get from the rest of the men when the visit ends. As the reporters stop talking quietly to each other, he catches the redhead’s eye yet again. This time he looks away first. 

Her gaze burns into him and Stiles knows that the more he looks, the closer he comes to being devoured.

As she turns away from him to the next unit, he knows that he would let himself go willingly.

He doesn’t expect to see her again, though he knows she’ll haunt his dreams. All of them had heard how busy Mrs. Roosevelt was. The First Lady, always on the move, always inspiring and always searching for a way to make life better. Ever since she and the President had come into public life that was a facet of her personality that was unchanging. 

 

So when they arrived at lunch after training and some mission strategy, Stiles was surprised to see all three of the woman standing the corner, chatting and observing. Stiles grabs his tray of rather unappetizing rations and goes to sit. Scott had gotten held back in a meeting with some of the higher ups but when this happens he always starts without him.

While their unit was close, they all split into groups for lunch unless Scott needed to meet with them. People hyped up how units became brothers and that was true in a sense.  The true bonds of brotherhood came from basic. It came from three months of sharing a tent and, often, a bedroll with another man. It was having someone else's back, always . Brotherhood didn’t come from just being locked in close quarters. It came from the things that can only be told when fear takes over the mind and ice settles around the heart. It came when someone pulled another out from the cold

He waves at Liam and Mason, talking loudly and laughing as the grumbles and grunts of hungry men fill the room.

He’s staring at the bowl of what he is pretty sure is meant to be soup when he hears the clatter of a tray landing on the table. Without looking up he almost says something about the soup, a old grip between him and Scott, but then he realizes that he smells jasmine instead of Scott’s earth and vanilla musk.

He looks up at that new scent and nearly falls out of chair when he sees the redhead reporter sitting across from him. 

“Hi, I’m Lydia.” 

She offers him a smile.

“I remember you,” He says, leaning forward and tapping his fingers on the table. “It’s nice to put a name to face.”

“It’s been  _ months _ . You recognized me?” Lydia asks, eyes wide as she shifts in her chair, uncomfortable.

“Hey, you recognized me, too.” 

His tone is clearly a bit defensive because she immediately straightens up and crosses her arms. 

His smile is sheepish as he moves to explain his wording but then she laughs. It’s as clear as a bell,  a low chuckle, gravelly and very sexy. He didn’t even do anything hilarious and she’s laughing like he made a joke just for her benefit.

He leans closer, inching into her space because her very presence is intoxicating. It’s like he’s been breathing stale air for the past year and it’s finally become clean.

“So…” 

“How have you been?”

Stiles shrugs, war isn’t good for anyone and he raises his eye from studying the table to look at her. She inclines her head like she agrees and the conversation stops. It’s comforting in an odd way but Stiles wants, no  _ needs _ , to find out more about Lydia.

“How has home been?” he asks, suddenly wistful for the smell of hot dogs, the lights of Time Square, the speakeasies, the loud streets. It’s so quiet and dark here and Scott’s from a small town outside of the city so he doesn’t really get it.

“Where do you live?” she asks, nibbling on the piece of bread next to the brownish soup on her tray.

“I live on the upper east side, a few blocks from Grand Central,” Stiles answers. He is delighted by the wide smile that spreads across Lydia’s features.

“I live around there, too,” She exclaims.

“I wonder why we never ran into each other. I’ve lived there for nearly 3 years. And before college in Boston I lived in the outskirts of the city with my family.”

“Aaah, before this I was spending much of my time at bars and such bemoaning the fact that I wasn’t working and therefore couldn’t go to college.”

Lydia raises her eyes at his confession and Stiles glances down at his hands. He feels the gentle touch of a finger against his chin and glances up to see that Lydia had reached up across the table. There’s no pity in her eyes, thankfully. But there’s a sadness in her gaze and he feels himself needing to explain. 

“My dad couldn’t afford the college that I had applied to. Really good schools, but the NYPD didn’t pay enough so I kept deferring my acceptance for almost 2 years. Before the draft happened, before I came here, I was going to just accept that I was never going to go to Yale because they didn’t provide me enough aid.”

He’s shocked by Lydia’s fierce exclamation of “Bullshit! That is utter bullshit.”

She notices his shock and his wary glance around the hall as she quiets her voice and continues, just as fiercely, “Stiles, if anyone deserves the opportunities of a quality education it’s you and everyone else fighting here. But you especially because Mrs. Roosevelt asked about any notable names and the General mentioned you and a Scott McCall among others.”

Lydia is clearly trying to stifle a laugh at the look on his face as Scott sits down beside her. Stiles wants to kick him out, force his best friend to sit with Liam and some of the others but the man takes one look between him and Lydia and promptly bursts out laughing.

Stiles wants to reach across the table to poke him but Lydia just shakes her head, grinning as she turns to Scott. She seems to be studying him as she speaks

“So, you’re the famous Scott McCall. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“All good things, I hope?” 

“Yes, though some interesting things from General Eisenhower about how your girl works in the Auxiliary Corps.”

Scott grins, ducking his head and Stiles smirks, starting on his lukewarm soup. 

“Yeah, Malia. She’ll probably be here the next time you come and visit.”

“Malia Tate?” Lydia asks, sounding surprised.

“Yes…”

“I met her a few days ago, actually.”

“Oh, you’re the reporter. I had my suspicions, especially after I saw how well you and Stiles were getting along.”

Lydia flushes and Stiles realizes that he is deeply interested in finding out how far that blush goes down.

“Thanks, I guess.”

“A reporter at a loss for words, that’s new,” Stiles teases, jumping back into the conversation.

“I usually ask questions, not answer them.” 

“Oh, really? I can’t imagine that you don’t get questions.”

“I get questions from idiots who don’t understand that I am worth more than them.”

“So you’re a snob.”

Complete silence for a few seconds before Lydia cracks up.

“No, I just know what I want.”

“Good.”

“Good.”

Scott has been watching the back and forth and was barely keeping a straight face. 

“God, I need to tell Lia that she was right about the two of you.”

“The two of us what?” Stiles demands as Lydia asks the same question. 

“That the two of you would be insanely attracted to each other and you would not know what to do about it. Damn it, now I owe her.”

Scott walks off and leaves the two of them alone, sitting in silence that is not comfortable as they avoid each other’s gaze.

But then their eyes met and the energy, the connection, now that it had been called out is too strong to ignore.

“Come with me,” Stiles mutters, eyes darting to her lips, her teeth biting the bottom one, for a second before dragging his eyes back to hers.

She nods, red hair almost obscuring her face as she stands up and walks out of the mess. Stiles taps his fingers against the table for a moment before following her out. He keeps his head down, shuffling along as he walks towards the car that Lydia had arrived in.

He stands there, looking for her and then he sees her. She’s leaning against the car, a smirk playing on her lips and a playful light her eyes.

By the time Stiles reaches her, it feels like centuries have past by the time he steps into her space. She’s bracketed between the car and him and she clearly doesn’t a problem with it as her hand traces his front, from his collar to his belt before she grabs his tie and looks into his eyes.

Stiles wants to kiss her. He’s been burning for her touch since the moment they saw each other nearly a year ago, but she won’t take what he has already surrendered to her without his express permission.

He nods and then she pulls him forward and kisses him. 

And  _ wow _ .

As his hands find her hair, undoing the braid, she bits at his lower lip, asking for entrance. He gladly gives and her tongue slips into his mouth, taking every breath from his lungs and breathing hers into his. He feels like he’s being set on fire as one of her hands fists in his hair, the other grasping his neck, pulling him closer still. One of his hands is pressed against the car while the other rucks up the front of her shirt. Her hand moves from his hair to grab that wandering hand and as she laces their hands together he wonders why he even let his horny side overtake him.

Just kissing her is igniting something in him and finally they are forced to break apart, breathing heavily, swollen-lipped, and eyes alight. He looks at her, feeling almost drunk before drawing her back into his arms. Their interlocked hands stay against the car and she bits at his lip again. He groans aloud, louder than he’s groaned in recent memory, and he feels himself harden. 

But just like that his hand brushes her cheek, soft and delicate, and he finds himself without the haze of lust fogging everything up. If the two of them have sex, it’s not going until they get to know each other better. 

They pull apart again only to crash together and Stiles feels as if any moment he’s not touching her he comes closer to drowning. 

She grins shyly at him, a direct contrast to the demanding goddess that he’d just worshipped with his mouth and he presses a kiss to her forehead.

It’s a promise that they will have more. That they will have time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from High Above Ground by Daughtry


	6. Compass Points You Home, Closer to Me

November 14th, 1942 London. 4:30pm

 

Lydia strides through the now familiar path to Stiles’s barrack. It’s a worn path, guns strewn around and the edges of war visible beyond the trees. She can’t imagine living like this, so repetitive and hopeless.

Well, she knows it’s not hopeless because she’s been at dinners, she’s seen Stiles with his unit and Malia with Scott. She understands more than ever that the only thing that has the power to break people is the lack of people. Support and courage mean more than she can express in writing because it’s hard. No, it’s nearly impossible to describe the look on Stiles’s face whenever she kisses him or the look on Malia’s face after she sees Scott’s smile.

It’s cliche, she thinks to herself, that the greatest unspoken truth in the world is that people need people. That if we are alone we will fall. Lydia leans against a wooden wall and scribbles that line down in her notebook.

As she enters Stiles’s tiny area, he looks up and grins. Before he pulls her into a kiss, he takes the pen out from on top of her ear and sets it down on his little table. 

She kisses him as he hauls her onto his lap, wrapping an arm loosely around her waist. She smiles into the kiss, feeling like she’s home for the first time in forever.

“So, how long do we have Lyds?” He asks, breathing a little heavier than he was when she walked in. Lydia just shakes her head, she doesn’t want to think about the fact that she has to leave him tomorrow. God, it’s  _ tomorrow _ .

“Hey, hey. Lydia.” 

She didn’t even notice that she’s shaking until Stiles crooks a finger under her chin. She takes in the sight of him, the man she is falling in love with, safe and whole until she stops shaking.

Stiles leans back against the bed and Lydia follows him. She’ll always follow him. As uncomfortable as laying atop her boyfriend in a tiny twin bed in a skirt is, she’ll never not cherish these moments. These moments when she can lay her head on his chest and hear his heartbeat. These moments with his arms wrapped around her, kissing her head. The way she can simply lift her head up and kiss him. 

The fact that when they pull apart, their foreheads are still touching and he’s smiling at her with a goofy grin like he can’t believe he got so lucky.

“Come back with me,” She whispers, a desperate thought leaping to the surface as she gazes at him. 

“What?”

The startled look on his face is enough to make her kneel over, nearly falling of the bed.

She rights herself, straddling him and looking at their interlocked hands.

“I know we’ve been refusing to talk about it but Stiles, I  _ leave _ tomorrow.”

Her voice breaks as she finishes and it comes out as a plea rather than an explanation. He reaches up and brushes a piece of hair from where it’s hanging in front of her face. He’s frowning, looking around the room and then back up at her. Suddenly, he lifts her up and flips them around so she’s beneath him. It doesn’t feel scary or nerve-wracking, but comfortable as her hair fans out around his pillow and he looms over her. 

God, all she wants to do is kiss him. She wants to tug him down and kiss him and do everything to him. As he looks at her, she bites her lip and his eyes immediately go to her lips. They widen and she knows that she could just kiss him senseless but god she wants him, she wants him on the bed she has at the Palace. She wants him wrapped in sheets, she wants privacy for the moment when she gives herself to him. She wants to have the soft light from the candles in her room. She wants him and no one else.

It doesn’t matter that she’s here right now and he’s leaning down to kiss her, she can’t stop the thoughts that they should be somewhere else. She places a hand on his chest, stopping him and he looks so adorably confused that she bites her lip, hard enough that she knows her teeth are leaving a mark so she doesn’t kiss him.

“Wait.”

“What Lydia?” Stiles groans out, ruffling his hair as he hovers above her.

“Can we just,” She sighs, belaying her nervousness before she continues. “Just screw it and just go. Please?”

“Go where, Lyds?” Stiles asks, flopping down on top of her and playing with the edge of her skirt.

“The Palace,” Lydia barely manages to keep herself from rolling her eyes at her boyfriend. Her  _ boyfriend. _ She’s still not used to having something that hers and hers alone.

“Lydia, I can’t just leave. I have a responsibility to my country. To my brothers.”

“Stiles, you’ll be gone for two hours, three tops, and I’m sure Scott can explain your absence.”

“I don’t feel very sure about this.”

She pouts up at him, pulling him down for a kiss. She knows even as she kisses him, his hands grasping at her hair, that she’s being manipulative. That she’s being greedy. But she’s allowed to be, damnit. 

This is the first thing in a very long time that she  _ actually _ wants. So she’s going to convince her boyfriend to come back to her room with her and they are going to have sex on a fucking bed even if she has to kiss his brains out to get him there.

Luckily, she doesn’t have to because he breaks the kiss and nods once.

She lets out a shierk as he picks her up and throws her over his shoulder like she weighs nothing. It’s strangely hot and all she wants to do is kiss him. Well, she always wants to kiss him. When he reaches her car, he mutters something about crashing and sets her down. She smirks as she gets into the driver’s seat and drives them to where she’s staying. 

Stiles’s looks of shock and awe as they walk up to her room remind her of her younger self the first time she ever stepped foot in the White House. And, oh, how she wants to let him savor it, let him take all the history in, let him discover the secret passageways that she’s knows he’s itching to find. But they are on a clock and every time his eyes widen with awe, she feels a pulse warm her skin. She wants to shove him against the wall, so she quickens her steps, pulling him by the hand up to her room.

Stiles sees the bed and nearly stops in his tracks. He’s frozen as he looks at her and then to the bed and then to her, like he’s just now comprehending what she wants. Lydia shakes her hand, laughter spilling from her lips as she unbuttons his shirt. Stiles breathes shallowly as she runs her nails down his abs, and then pulls her into a firm kiss. She nearly melts into his arms as his hands pulls out her bobby pins, freeing her hair from the fishtail braid. The pins clatter to the floor and Stiles groans as she nibbles on his bottom lip. 

“Fuck,” He gasps out, looking at her in awe, her messy hair, her kissed lips and her pupils wide with desire. She knows she looks like a nymph, an otherworldly beauty send to seduce him. As he looks at her, drinking her in, she goes over and closes the door. 

“Finally, we’re alone,” She whispers, eyes only on Stiles as the lights in the room flicker. He shrugs off his shirt and shifts a little. She grins, striding over to him, kicking her heels off as she reaches up and kisses him.

She knows how much smaller she is than Stiles and it’s only more clear as he hoists her up, lips still fused together as he carries her to bed. 

He sets her on the edge of bed and kneels before her, pressing a kiss to her lips as he unbuttons her shirt. His hands palm her breasts and she feels almost lightheaded, releasing a sigh that has him grinning. As he pushes the shirt off her shoulders, he sucks on her pulse point, the smooth skin that he knows makes her weak. She suddenly feels a deep rush of desire for him as his hands rub her thighs and his lips slowly make their way to her heaving breasts. Right before he gets there though, she lifts his head up. He frowns at her and Lydia smiles, pulling him up to her height and kissing him. She tastes the sweat from her body on his lips and her hands scratch at his back.

She wants  _ more. _

He pulls her apart, his hand making circles on her thigh as he slowly, achingly, pushes up her skirt. In retaliation, she moves her mouth to his breastbone and sucks. He looks at her, almost betrayed at the fact she’s not kissing him anymore but then her hand squeezes his ass and he groans. She pulls him further up on the bed so she’s leaning against the pillows and he doesn’t kiss her lips again. 

No, Stiles kisses his way down her body, the hand that was her hair moving to her breast, squeezing and rolling as his tongue slides over her nipple. His other hand is still rubbing her circles on her thigh, this time closer. And she knows he can feel how wet she is because  _ fuck _ , he’s trying to kill her before she even orgasms. 

“Stiles.” 

She tries to sound stern but it just comes out as a plea. He lifts his head from where he is, mouthing at her abs and just smirks. She wants to throw something or curse him, but then his hand pushes her skirt off and  _ oh. _

His finger dips into her sex as he hovers right above her. She moans so loudly that everyone else in the Palace probably heard as he licks her pussy, once, twice, then again. He’s exquisite, this man, and she wants more. He slides a finger deeper, like he’s searching for something and then with his tongue licking her pussy, he crooks a finger and she explodes. As she comes, he drives in, licking up her juices like it’s the nectar of the gods and he has been starving. She groans and moans and if she was with anyone else, even Allison, the noises she’s making would have her blushing scarlet. 

He looks up at her and she suddenly feels a gush of wetness in her pussy, because, wow, he is positively soaked in her. As he crawls up her body, he licks at his lips and she can feel him harden against her. He stills over her and she reaches up and crushes her lips against him. God, he’s wearing her and he is still letting her call the shots.

She loves him so much her heart feels like it’s going to burst but then he slides his tongue into her mouth and all rational thought slips away. Her hand wraps around his neck, sliding up his short hair as he kisses her. She feels like she’s drowning in him, like he is the only thing in the entire world that matters.

Her other hand moves down his back, pulling down his trousers and as her hand palms his ass, he breaks the kiss to release the most amazing growl she’s ever heard.

“Did you just growl?” she teases, “Oh my God, Stiles.” 

She throws back her head in laughter and he just smirks, his hand moving to her side and tickling her. 

She squeals at that and shouts, “Mercy! Stiles, mercy.”

She tugs on his hair and kisses him again, slowly rolling them over so now he is at her mercy. She straddles him, rolling her hips over his clothed cock and his eyes nearly roll out the back of his head. Bending over him, she kisses him. The world stops turning for a moment before the restless beating of her heart brings her back to reality. 

His cock is pressing against her thigh and his hand reaches up to twinge her nipple. In response she grinds her pussy against his still clothed cock and he groans.

“Lydia, _ please _ .”

Her hand moves over his torso, tweaking a nipple as she traces his body slowly, worshipfully. She wants to remember this. She wants to hold onto the memory of him finally filling her. 

She pulls off his underwear and nearly stops as she stares at his cock. It’s thick and round and she can see the veins and she just, she  _ wants _ . She wants everything with him. She wants to tease him until he is breathless, she wants him to fuck her quick and dirty, pounding her and kissing her screams quiet, she wants him to worship her until the only she knows is his name. She wants to suck his cock and have him taste himself on her kiss, she wants him all over her, she wants him to be the only thing she wants.

She traces a finger up and down his cock, feeling it harden even more in her hand and then he moans.

“Lydia,” He breathes out and she sinks down on him. He sits up a little, enough so she’s firmly on his cock and his hand is twisted in her hair. She moves up and down and she sighs, letting her head loll against his chest as he fills her.  

“Stiles, oh God,  _ Stiles _ .”

He thrusts up, hitting her g-spot and her hand is scratching at his back so much she’s pretty sure she’s drawing blood. But  _ fuck _ , she’s never been filled like this before and as she meets his eyes she nearly starts to cry. He’s looking at her like she’s the clearest moon on a dark night, like all his dreams have suddenly come true.

They are just gazing into each other’s eyes, the only movement coming from his cock sliding into her wet heat. He moves to speak but she kisses him.

She wants to hear it, oh how she wants to hear it. But first she needs to see his face when he comes. 

He gasps, breath coming out in pants as she slides her hand into his hair and pulls in time with his thrust.

But then his hand moves from clutching her ass to tracing her circles around her inner thigh and she can’t breath. She can’t see anything but him.

“ _ Stiles, Stiles, Stiles _ ,” She chants, all thought leaving her mind but the ability to say his name as she comes, clenching down on him, her juices spilling over his cock and with one hard tug to his hair, he comes too. 

“ _ Lydia. _ ” 

He breaths out, cock still coming in her pussy. Her name sounds like the holiest prayer she’s ever heard when he says it like that and she never wants to leave this moment.

She can’t hold herself up anymore though and she collapses on his chest, sated and sweaty as he runs a hand through her hair, playing with the curls.

Looking up at him, she grins goofily, pulling him into a kiss and curling into his warmth. His big hand, God she never noticed how big his hands are, they encompass her entire shoulder. He pulls back, grinning at her and she never wants his smile to fade from lips. 

She presses a kiss to his chest as she settles down on top of him. Stiles curls a finger beneath her chin and lifts her head up to look at him. She sighs, content and happy, as they press their foreheads together. The sheets are draped lightly over her lower back and she shifts to get a better look at him, his hair sticking up all over the place from where she pulled on it, his lips swollen and a hickey forming on his neck. He’s gazing at her. She feels like he’s reading into her very soul and the words start bubbling out before she can stop them.

“I love you.”

She whispers and her heart is in her throat as her eyes flutter shut. She can’t look at him, she’s naked and they just had sex but saying those words and more than that meaning them, is the most vulnerable she’s ever been. 

She feels a hand cupping her cheek and she opens her eyes to see Stiles looking at her in awe before he wipes away something.

“I’m crying,” She marvels, and Stiles chokes out a laugh. He leans up and kisses her so tenderly she wants to savor this moment because she knows, instinctively what he is about to do when he finishes the kiss.

“I love you, Lydia.” 

There it is. There are the words she never believed she would hear someone mean. The words that this boy, no, this man is saying after he made love to her. Not during, but after. 

And it’s like a dam breaks and Lydia lets out a choked sob, wiping away the tears that escape her eyes. Stiles is looking at her with so much concern that it makes her still. She shakes her head once, tracing his cheek, his lips with her finger and then she kisses him, pouring every ounce of her love into the kiss. She wants the feel on his lips on hers forever but she knows as she pulls aways that he must go. They are both hit by a sudden reminder that there is a world outside this room and the time catches up with them. 

“Lydia.” 

She shakes her head, more violently this time. No, no. He can’t go, she just had him.

_ He can’t _ .

But as he moves off the bed and begins gathering his clothes, she can’t bring herself to stop him. She knows that ultimately this little moment, this peace in the midst of war, is exactly that: a moment. So she gets up, sheets wrapped around her body and she kisses him. She holds his face in her hand, one hand sliding to cup his neck. She’s possessive, sue her. 

He looks at her helplessly and she knows that he’s asking her drive him back to base. God knows, that being in London, she’s heard some absolute horror stories about how the soldiers have no clue how to drive and end of up crashing into all sorts of things. She laughs, muffled as she pulls on her shirt before she leads him downstairs and out the door. 

The fifteen minute drive is done in almost near silence, their hands interlocked and his head on her shoulder. She drops him off and he doesn’t just leave after kissing her in the Jeep like a normal person, no. Stiles swings around the the side she’s on, hoists himself up and kisses her hard. It’s not tender or loving like the one’s they had shared after sex, this kiss is passionate and longing and he’s pressing every inch of his love for her into the feel of their mouths. 

As she pulls out, she waves goodbye. She keeps her eyes on camp until she sees Scott throw an arm around her boyfriend and lead him deeper into the darkness. As she heads back to the palace she notices she’s crying, harder than she’s ever cried before.

The plane ride back home is long and Lydia has time to write and mourn. The last line in her notepad reads:

_ I miss him more the further I get from him but I know he’ll come home because his home is me.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from Compass by Zella Day


	7. Couldn't Stop (Couldn't Stop Caring)

March 22nd 1943, Poland. 8:21 am

 

They land in Poland and Stiles is only slightly surprised to find that the only thing he feels is dread. As they walk through the soil that his ancestors lived and died on, he doesn’t feel any connection or longing for a homeland he never knew. All he can think about is how he will kill someone today and how much it terrifies him. Scott notices, because of course he does, and he wraps an arm around Stiles to steady him. Stiles knows that Scott is also trying to ready himself. Despite being a skilled leader and motivated soldier, Scott is the best of their unit and the most unwilling to kill. 

Stiles sees Malia a few steps behind them, her short hair shoved under her cap, and he thanks all the gods that she is here. She’ll be the one thing to keep Scott from absolutely falling apart when this night is over. He reaches into his pocket, the last letter from Lydia still stuffed in there. He has to take it out before they actually go into battle, can’t have anyone finding out that he has a girl back home, but on this walk, the death march with war drums playing in the distance, he can find comfort in her words.

He unfolds the worn paper, read and caressed so many times that the ink is faded a little. He traces her swirling scrawl, her scribbled name and her large I love you. Even the smell of her, of roses and jasmine and ink, has evaporated from the parchment. God, he misses her. He misses her laugh, her smirk, the way she feels against him, the way she fit in his arms like they were made for each other. He misses how they spoke, how her mind whirled and worked, and how they could help each other. 

And some nights, he misses the way she felt against his cock, the way her breasts felt in his hands, the taste of her on his lips. Those nights are the worst because he feels traitorous as he reads the words she wrote and rubs one out, imagining it is her whispering dirty things in his ear, dropping kisses on cock, her face blank with ecstasy. He wants her _ here _ with him so badly it hurts. 

But the sounds of war are coming closer, the smell of gunpowder chasing away the memory of Lydia’s scent and just like that, Stiles is in the present. He is back to war and blood and death. After this there will be little reprieve from the knowledge of what he is about to do. 

She still anchors him. She always does, but he has to leave her in the corners of his mind so he can do what must be done.

They enter camp and are immediately given guns and keys to a jeep and told to go to the front lines. Stiles catches sight of Scott, leaning on the floor against Liam’s legs and looking down at his hands. He knows that his leader is trying to remember what it feels like to have them not be covered in blood. The jeep is quiet. There’s no laughter or reminiscing on this trip and it makes him frown, but he notices how Derek has a hand squeezing Mason’s shoulder, how Deaton is talking quietly with Jackson about medical something or other and he knows that they will make it out one piece. As they move closer to the battle, blood stinks up the air and the conversation stops as the sound of gunfire becomes the only sound they hear.

Scott’s face is tight, controlled in a way Stiles has never witnessed before as he addresses the unit. 

“Alright. Listen up. What we do today we do because we must. We do these things because they are the right things. Because keeping our loved ones safe from the threat of tyranny is always the right thing. What we do today will haunt us. Killing is never easy, but we must do it in order to keep our country safe.”

Stiles sees the others nodding along and he nods a half beat later than everyone else. They turn away to find their positions, stationed near enough to yell but not close enough to truly see what is happening at the other’s flanks. Stiles stays near Scott, the two of them standing almost shoulder to shoulder as Scott gives the order.

“Move out.”

They wade into the fray, smoke filling their sight and gunshots clouding their ears. The planes zoom overhead, dropping bombs and laying waste to the already grotesque battlefield. He sees men in uniforms like his own poking guns out of trenches and firing killing blows into the fog that obscures the other side. Scott almost stops, a look of pain and terror on his features and Stiles looks down and sees that at their feet is a boy, just a boy, bleeding out from a gunshot wound. Scott is furious, his lips curled into an animalistic snarl. It’s only by touch alone that Stiles is able to keep Scott by his side. He hears snippets of others shouting orders, and he is startled into action as he hears Liam’s scream of pain. Scott gives him a nod and they slowly make their way over the trench to their youngest member. Jackson is already there, pulling out the shrapnel from where it is embedded in his arm.

“He’s bleeding,” Jackson says.

“Obviously.”

Scott shoots Stiles a warning look and he shuts up, gripping Liam’s shoulder. The war whirls around them, men screaming words from a different language that he understands mean pain, and shots and kills. He knows that men are dying and that Liam will survive but he can still feels this sudden rage well up inside him. 

Lydia’s image floats into his mind and the rage increases tenfold because these men, the dicks, they would like to kill her. They would like to snuff out her light and kill his soul. These men, nay, these murderous dogs — they deserve to die.

His face twists into a snarl, a darkness in his eyes that has Scott stepping back.

“Stiles.”

He stills. The concern in his best friend’s voice almost calms his rage, but then he thinks about how the Nazis would react to catching Scott, the guy who deserves happiness more than anyone else in universe. 

He doesn’t respond as he picks up his gun, hops in the jeep and checks his ammo. He counts about 100 rounds. If he chooses rights and uses the grandes, he should be able to kill several of these motherfuckers.

 

\------

 

Stiles thinks he may have blacked out. He looks around. There are jeeps pulling up, the sounds of screams, and his uniform is covered with blood. He almost knows what he’ll see if he looks around him. The bodies of dead men. The bodies of men whose blood will stain his uniform, whose deaths will stain his soul. He doesn’t want to see what he did in a fit of anger, the actions he took in the the middle of his all-consuming, mind-numbing rage. But he feels a hand on his shoulder and Scott is crouching beside him, looking at him with concern and not terror. 

_ He needs, he needs, he needs. _

He needs Lydia, he needs her presence, he needs her touch. He feels tears escaping as he finally allows himself to glance around him.

“I did this,” he gasps out, leaning against Scott and letting his best friend hold him up.

“Stilinski.” 

It’s one of the Polish generals and Stiles turns to the man. He stands up, still leaning on Scott as he salutes the general.

“Thank you, son. You turned the tide.”

Stiles feels like he is about to choke on the food he never ate. They are thanking him for becoming a murderer. 

Shit, fuck, shit. He’s a murderer, he killed dozens of people. How is he worthy of being thanked? He should be going to jail. 

He hears someone talking. It’s close enough that he thinks it’s Scott. A hand is warm, tight on his shoulder. It grounds him and the shakes slowly subside. Scott’s face is a look of fury that Stiles has only seen once before, when they had seen the kid bleeding out.

“He’s clearly shaken. He’s my squadmate — more than that, he is my brother and you do not just say that to a soldier who just killed for the first time. That’s not how we do things here.”

Scott turns to face Stiles, squeezing his arm hard enough that Stiles grimaces.

“Come on, we got to get you to Medical.”

Stiles follows, not saying a word. Scott’s grip on his arm is the only thing keeping him upright and when they get to medical he collapses on the cot. A nurse, a blonde, runs over and starts cleaning the blood splattered on his face. He is covered in it, drenched in the blood of murderous pigs and he starts stripping, not caring a whit for modesty as the bloody uniform is shoved on the floor. He’s wearing his skivvies when General Eisenhower comes in. 

“Son, thank you,” He says quietly, solemnly, and Jackson who is standing behind him, scuffs his boots on the floor.

“Go ahead and take care of Mr. Stilinski, Mr. Whittemore,” The general says, ducking out of the medical tent. Stiles struggles to get up, his body feels weighed down but he knows that he and Scott need to be in a debrief right now. He should be there, but Jackson pushes him down on the bed.

“It would not be pleasant for either of us, but I will sit on you if I have to.”

“No, thank you.” 

Stiles’s voice falters as he thinks about what and how he’ll tell Lydia. When he had written to her that he was going to the front and the thick of war, his girl had simply asked him for the details and to tell her if anything happened. Despite his mind whirling and a soaking cloth cleaning his body, he finds himself slipping off to sleep. He wakes up and it’s light out. The sun is barely peeking out from the behind the mountains and wow, it’s beautiful. He tries to describe it on a piece of paper but how he wishes he could draw so he could send it to Lydia. She’s so much better with words than he is. 

  
He sits up and starts writing the actual letter. He wants to keep the details of the slaughter to the minimum but he knows that she deserves better than his white lie. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from Couldn't Stop Caring by the Spiritual Machines


	8. Keep Running Around My Head

March 25th 1943, New York. 5:15 pm

 

The letter that sits folded up on Lydia’s beside is the source of her tears and her terror. He _killed_ because he loves her. There is blood on the letter and the worst part of is the last paragraph. A paragraph so full of regret and loss that it is burned into Lydia’s brain.

Lydia pulls out the letter, reading over Stiles’s words for what feels like the millionth time. She does not want to feel so compelled to read the letter, but she wants to understand. To understand the way the man she loves suffers. She feels like screaming so loudly the windows break as she reaches his last sentence which reads:

_Lydia, I ~~still~~...I still want to be with you when I get home but I question if I deserve you. I’m so bloody and ruined and you deserve better. _

She doesn’t know if her letter has reached him yet. She wishes that communication was quicker because she needs him to know that what she wants and deserves and loves is him. She loves him as the hilarious, slightly scared soldier she first met on the docks of New York City. She loves him as the cunning strategist, as the tender lover, as the adoring boyfriend, as the avenging soldier.

She just loves _him_. Scars and death count and shakes and all.

She knows from Malia that Scott is taking this whole thing, this trauma, this death, almost as badly as Stiles is. Both girls have been commiserating and Malia has been complaining that the unorthodox tactics that both their boys use have been getting a lot of attention from the brass. She worries, often, about how the constant stench of death and stains of blood are changing the people she loves. About how sending soldiers back into war without giving them a chance to heal is fucking with their heads. She leans against the pillow, flipping a page of meaningless scribbles about the most recent propaganda over and turning to a new page. She smiles softly as she pulls the pen from behind her ear. Ever since Stiles had done that that last night they shared she has a different appreciation for the gesture. With her pen poised above the page, she moves to begin writing until she hears a key in the lock. Allison is home.

“Hey, Lydia,” She hears her roommate greet her as Allison shuffles around the room before flinging herself on the bed.

“That bad?” Lydia asks, running a hand through Allison’s unruly locks. Allison’s answer is somewhere between a moan and a whimper. So, yes, Allison’s day had been worse than hers, though she didn’t quite understand how that was possible. Her day so far had consisted of interviewing draft dodgers, crying over Stiles, and sitting alone as she watched the city grow colder.

“Yes! The new guy won’t stop flirting with me, one of our key materials has not arrived yet, and of course I’m blamed for something I had nothing to do with.”

“Come here.”

Lydia pulls Allison into her arms, pressing a kiss into her hair. Allison sighs, cuddling into the warmth of Lydia’s body and both of them feel content in a way that’s escaped them for several weeks, if not longer.

“Missed this,” Allison whispers so softly that Lydia almost doesn’t her. “Missed you.”

“I’ve been here, Als”

Lydia’s confused. She’s been working and worrying but she has been in the apartment most nights.

“I know, but I miss _you_.”

Allison moves to kiss her neck and Lydia blushes, remembering long nights spent tangled in the sheets, but they can’t do this.

“Allison, I know that you find the guy that’s flirting with you incredibly attractive. It was the first thing you said when you got home and that means you can’t stop thinking about him.”

Lydia sits up a bit and Allison rolls on her side, back now facing Lydia. She rests a hand on her best friend’s shoulder and squeezes softly.

“Babe, what we had worked for us. It was good, fantastic even, because we never let the sex get in the way of our friendship. But you only want me and miss me because you are scared of what this Isaac guy could mean to you. I remember the last guy that you fell for but Als, I promise that this guy is different. I mean you even talk about him differently.”

Allison sighs, pressing her head against Lydia’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” She murmurs.

“Hey, look at me,” Lydia says, crooking a finger under Allison’s jaw and forcing her to look her in the eyes. “You did nothing wrong. We’re all a little scared right now.”

“Even you?”

Lydia nearly starts to cry. A little afraid doesn’t even begin to cover her fear, but she justs nods and moves to start making dinner with the rations Allison had brought home. 

\------------

She wakes cuddled into Allison and frowns as she remembers that she has to be at the White House for most of the day. She can’t stay in Allison’s arms, warm and comfortable forever. She has to get up and face the day.

She had thrown herself into work the minute she’d gotten back from London, taking on more and more pieces that required more interviews and more analysis. She would do no more fluff pieces while her man was fighting a war. Stiles had told her, while they lay tangled in the sheets of the Palace that she should write about the war. If she could in anyway help him and all the others return home to the arms of those they loved, she would do it.

His belief in her had emboldened her to demand the ability to write more serious articles from her editor. She knew how proud he must have been, to receive her letter with a clipping of her last article about women who were working in the war. The scribbled note that she’d received back said that Malia had grinned almost as wide as Scott had ever seen her smile and the happiness that was so clear in Stiles’s words, so different from the pain and frustration that permeated the rest of the letter, made her want to weep.

She glances at the stack of letters on her bedside table and the candles, the shabbat candles,  that sit in a box so she can read late into the night and she shakes her head. She has to go out. She can’t sit here reminiscing over the night she spent with Stiles.

Lydia pulls on clothing and heads down to Grand Central. It’s dark and dusty and cold. Life has slowly been sucked away from the city and it terrifies her because she feels herself reverting back to the icy, emotionless girl she’d been before she met Stiles. Everyday the radio talks about the war and they never quite seem to be winning. The propaganda videos and broadcasts are still about “supporting the boys” and “doing our part” but sometimes one about what to do if the Nazis win comes on when Lydia is listening to the radio to wind down after a long day and those terrify the daylights out of her.

She’s broken away from her melancholy thoughts when she sees a newly done graffiti on the side of a building. She steps closer, curious because it looks longer than the normal graffiti she’s seen around here before.

She pulls out her notebook. She knows that Chris is doing a piece on young woman reacting to the war and their small forms of rebellion and by God, this is one of them. In sweeping letters of blue and black, the poem reads:

_It’s impossible for you to not love him_

_His words are tattooed across your soul_

_His hands are imprinted on your heart_

 

_You’d let the world burn to keep him safe_

_No, it’s more than that_

_You would light the match_

Signed in the corner is the letters A.W. Who is this girl? Who loves this deeply and this loudly that she wants to have it displayed on an abandoned building, that she screams it for the entire city to hear?

It’s a wonderful poem though and it deserves to be shared because damn it, Lydia feels the words in her soul. It’s everything she wants to say about Stiles but can’t figure out how because she doesn’t write poetry. She hears the loud bell signing that it’s fifteen minutes to 11 am and she picks up her pace. As much as she wants to stay here, staring at the words, she can’t. She gets on the train, glancing at the newspaper left behind in the seat across from her and she feels bile rise. The headline discusses the recent Red Cross visit to one of the death camps.

She knows exactly how hated her people are in this country and whenever she passes the President in the White House, she wants to scream at him because he let her kin come all the way here only to send them back and let them burn. America, accepting the tired and hungry masses? Nope. She grins sardonically. The poem inscribed on the Statue of Liberty has never felt less true. America doesn’t even accept those that already here.

Now that had been a screaming match for the ages. Eleanor, vehemently opposed to the internment of Japanese Americans, had gotten into an argument with the President that continued even as they entered the briefing room. They’d been ordered not to print anything about it, of course, and they all valued their relationships with the First Couple so they didn’t. But that argument, the anger and pain in the First Lady’s voice and the resignation and regret in the President, hadn’t left Lydia since.

She’s terrified of the future. Every day she wakes up worried that Stiles will have died and she feels so little hope for what her life would be without him. She remembers when Stiles told her as they left each other for uncertain futures and potential doom that she looks beautiful when she cries and she feels tears spring to her eyes. She misses him so much it feels a part of her is missing.  

She doesn’t notice that she has arrived at the DC station, so lost in her own mind-boggling terror that the ride passed in what felt like minutes. She’s always loved these train rides, the moments when she can look out the window and just be in awe of the beauty of the country she loves, but her fear has taken even that away from her. Lydia curls into herself, finally noticing that she lost a few pounds. The fear and worry cause her to eat less and she knows that she can’t let fear control her anymore.

Eleanor greets her with smile as she skids into the room, nearly late for the briefing.

“Lydia, good to see you.”

Abigail greets her with a grin and a side hug. Lydia returns both before she grabs her notepad and starts writing down the details of the Mrs. Roosevelt’s trip to women’s colleges in New York. As a graduate of one of those fine colleges, the one in Boston, Lydia can’t help but grin full of pride as Mrs. Roosevelt offers up just how much she loved the schools. The conversation is then turned to the war and refugees and the number of the soldiers dying. Lydia can’t help but notice the way her fellow reporters seem more diligent about writing about the present then the future and she frowns. Abigail nudges her and she turns her attention back the the First Lady, dutifully taking notes.

As they file out, moving to the snack that the White House prepared for them, Mrs. Roosevelt taps her shoulder.

“Ms. Martin, are you alright?” She asks, a little awkwardly, wringing her hands.

“Are any of us ever really alright?” Lydia mutters, glancing around the room. Even here in the seat of government and power, the untouchable house of majesty, the life feels as though it has been sucked out of the room, leaving only cold. “Not really, no. But thank you for asking.”

The First Lady moves to one of the couches, sitting down spine straight. Even in Lydia’s company, she refuses to relax fully.

“I miss him,” The words burst out before Lydia truly realizes what she is saying.

“Your soldier.”

It’s not a question but a statement, although Lydia nods her head anyway.

“I feel so empty and terrified all the time and he lessened both of those feelings,” She whispers and feels Mrs. Roosevelt squeeze her hand. She looks up, noticing the look of pain crossing the First Lady’s features. No one likes to talk about Hick but everyone knows.

What a terrible burden it is, Lydia reflects, to be powerful yet lonely. To be known but not loved. She thinks that the First Lady would understand how once you’ve truly felt loved something inside you shifts and losing it even though you’ll fall back together rips you apart inside. The emptiness and coldness shifts inside her. She’s not alone, and that makes this a little more bearable. The letters from Stiles, focusing on her writing, and watching as Allison falls in love will keep her occupied enough until the man she loves comes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from Certain Things by James Arthur  
> the poem you can find [ here](http://the-ships-to-rule-them-all.tumblr.com/post/153995066851/hes-your-weakness-the-person-you-bleed-for-the)


	9. We Found Our Way Back Home

May 7th 1945, London. 4:27 pm

 

Stiles feels like the bloodstained uniform buried under his bed won’t haunt him much longer. There’s laughter in the air now. The sun is out, yet Stiles still feels hollow. There’s an emptiness in his chest that has existed since Lydia went back over two years ago and it’s only increased as the blood on his hands became so much that it would never wash away. 

The war is slowly ending and they are finally back in London, back in the barracks where he first fell in love with Lydia. As his eyes stumble on his bunk, all he can see are the memories of that person; the man who laughed with a beautiful redhead, who played cards late at night with his squadmates, the man who read letters late into the night so often that he had started getting chastised for it. 

He missed that person. It’s just a cycle of blood, death, and violence now. The worst part of it all had been losing one of their squadmates, Adrian. It had been a break in the cycle because Adrian had been a friend, a close one. He had been one of the only ones on the squad to truly appreciate Stiles’s humor. The most awful part of whole saga had been the fact that the day after Adrian had died, they had received a letter from his wife. Stiles could recall the look of pain on Scott’s face as he penned the response. They’d been away from Malia at the front during that moment and the minute he’d finished writing and they’d all dispersed, Scott had collapsed. His brother had cried and Stiles felt utterly helpless because receiving the letter had brought back every fear he felt about dying and leaving Lydia behind. He couldn’t even really comfort Scott because the fear had ravaged his mind and only left anger and pain. 

The pain had passed from his system as they all avenged their fallen brother, unleashing a wave of fury that reminded him of Greek Mythology. The dead that layered the ground were stacked and their uniforms covered with blood. That was what his initial fury, his blackout death campaign was. He was Achilles reborn, ignited with righteous fury and awful sorrow and he only hoped he wasn’t doomed. 

Only a few things help to keep him sane anymore. He feels as though the more time the war drags on, even as the tide turns in their favor, the emptier he becomes.

Scott bursts through the door, the grin on his face out of place given how many people they had killed the day before. 

“Why are you smiling like an idiot?”

Scott just grins, clearly waiting for someone, and then he sees Malia plastering herself against Scott’s back.

“Stiles, how do you feel about being a godfather?”

This comes from Malia and Stiles can only gape on the two of them. It was one thing to bed a girl, another to wed a doll, and yet another to get a dame pregnant.

“What...What!” He stammers out, looking at them as Malia steps out from behind Scott and yep, that is clearly a baby bump. 

“Well?” 

Scott is looking at him expectantly and Stiles realizes he never answered. He stands up, rustling Lydia’s last letter from where it was laying on the bed and wraps both of them into a tight hug.

“Of course. I’ll be the best godfather that anyone has ever seen.”

“Thank you, Stiles.”

Scott’s eyes look a little watery so Stiles pulls him another hug. Hearing Malia take an exaggerated deep breath in the background that has them all laughing. They take a seat on Scott’s bunk, curled up tightly, and Stiles flashes to a moment in the future where they would be doing this with him and Lydia. Scott has an arm wrapped around Malia, hand pressed against her stomach as she leans against him. 

“So, what’s the plan?” Stiles asks. He really and truly doesn’t want to rain on the joy of his two dearest friends, but Malia is pregnant and it’s the middle of a war. How could they be so stupid? He shakes his head in mock exasperation because to be entirely honest, he’s slightly shocked it took them until now. 

Both of them looked at him in slight surprise.

“So the extent of your plan was telling me,” Stiles laughs, shaking his head as he sees the deer in the headlights look on Scott’s face. “You see, this is why I’m the tactics guy and you are the person who makes all the speeches. You are very convincing, McCall, but you can’t plan for shit.”

Malia gets up and leans against the wall, laughing as Scott wrestles Stiles into a headlock. 

“Mercy!” He shouts and suddenly all three are laughing so hard that Scott has to sit on the floor. Damn, this whole situation is ridiculous. He shouldn’t be this happy but he is and he’ll take it. 

“But, seriously. What are you guys doing to do?”

Scott thinks for a minute, his teeth biting into his bottom lip.

“Well, I mean, the war seems to be ending within the next few weeks so I suspect we will be home, or at least back in New York by the month’s end and Lia is only about 3 months along so I don’t think we really have to worry.”

Malia nods, pressing a kiss to Scott’s check. 

“Makes sense. I’ve glad you thought that far ahead and you know, what the hell. This is probably the best time to get pregnant anyway. The war’s ending.”

Stiles sprawls out across the bed, and laughs at Malia’s mock salute because if anyone is in charge in their little trio, it’s her. 

Sitting in silence is oddly comforting, especially because he’s able to reread Lydia’s last letter for at least the 10th time and Malia and Scott are cuddled up and kissing and just generally making this feel a little less like a warzone. Love always makes it feel less like he is stuck in this cycle of blood and death and it centers him. More than that,  _ Lydia _ centers him. 

He wants this war to be over. It’s so close he can taste it, because even the city of London has felt less dark in recent days and the children are coming out to play for the first time since Stiles has been here. He wants to go home, to see his father, to see Lydia, to make love to his girlfriend on his own bed in his apartment. He wants to find cases and throw himself into something that isn’t full of blood. If he never has to pick up a gun again it will be too soon. He knows some people have gone dancing, but he never felt like he deserved to. 

He remembers in Poland when their unit had run into the squad nicknamed the Howling Commandos, and they had a long talk with a guy named Jim while Scott had bonded with their leader, Steve. Stiles still remembered the conversation he had with a guy named Bucky. They had talked about having lovers that they left behind and how those lovers were the best parts of them. Bucky, glancing at the blond talking to Scott, had told him something that Stiles didn’t think he would ever forget. 

“When there is a person that has your heart and the best parts of you always come from them, it’s really hard not to lose yourself in the heat of battle but trust me, Stiles, the only thing they ever expect from you is for you to come home to them and come home relatively sane.” 

Stiles never found exactly what happened to the Howling Commandos, but he’d heard that James Barnes had been killed in action. All he could remember was Bucky giving him the advice he’d desperately needed to hear. 

The reminiscing stops when a knock on the door is heard. Stiles gets up and opens it up to find Liam, shivering but with the biggest grin that Stiles can remember seeing on the kid. 

“What happened?” Scott asks, sitting up a little and rubbing his eyes. He’d clearly drifted off. 

“Get out here,” Liam demands. He hasn’t moved from the doorway and Stiles can hear loud cheering from outside.

Scott shakes Malia awake, helping her up as the the three of them scramble to join Liam outside.

“We won.”

It’s not a question, it’s a simply a statement that’s tinged with a hint of disbelief because honestly, Stiles thought for sure he’d die on the soil of a battlefield somewhere in eastern Europe.

“We won!”

Scott repeats it, awe barely disguised in his tone as he picks Malia up and kisses her, spinning her around as the rest of the team wanders over.

“Oh come on,” Mason gripes, looking at Scott and Malia with annoyance.

“Drinks!” Derek demands, hiccupping and stumbling in a way that confirms Stiles suspicions that Derek had broken into a liquor cabinet with some others. Scott raises an eyebrow at the sight of Jackson, kissing the foreheads of everyone he comes across, completely exuberant.

“McCall.” 

Stiles hears someone scream over the crowd and both him and Scott turn around to see General Blake, a general who had been basic with Scott walking over to them and clasp Scott on the shoulder.

“Blake, good to see you. You excited to be going home?”

“You’re looking well, McCall. I take it this lovely lady is Malia. I’m so excited to be going home and see my girl and my niece. My sister had a baby while we’ve been here and myself and my brother-in-law can’t wait to go home and meet our little Athena.”

“Athena’s a great name, congratulations,” Stiles injects, grinning up at the curly haired general who rivaled Scott in his motivation skills and himself on the battlefield in terms of number of the Nazi shitheads killed. 

“Thanks. Stilinski, right?”

“That’s me,” Stiles confirms, shaking Blake’s hand. 

Blake nods at both of them, offering them a blinding grin before he goes to join his own unit.

“I’m ready to go home,” Stiles admits. 

“You know it might take awhile though?” Jackson asks, throwing an arm around his shoulders.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m ready to leave all this behind me.”

“I get what you mean.”

The party dies down for Stiles after an hour and he starts walking, finding the tree where he had held Lydia in his arms and they’d watched the sun rise. It feels like that moment of peace and certainly had been centuries ago, even though it only had been a few years. The man who’d watched the sunrise was an innocent, and he hopes that the darkness that he knows has taken a grip around his heart is able to fade the more he’s around home. 

God, he misses Lydia something fierce because she’s so close to him now. It’s worse now than it ever was during the rainy nights trying to sleep through the sounds of gunfire and bombs in Poland. It’s worse because he knows he can go home and he wants to so badly that he’d kill to see her again. He already has, but the anticipation has spiked so high and he feels jittery. Like a schoolboy seeing his crush for the first time, a hint of nerves and excitement fill him as he watches the sunset over the the forest that has been bombed so many times it just looked dead. 

But he understands now, more than ever, that love and faith can bring dead things back to life. It’s what Lydia has always done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from Mars by Sleeping at Last


	10. It's Like The Sun Came Out

May 20th 1945, New York. 2:45 pm

 

Lydia still isn’t used to the way life can change so quickly in the span of a month. Last month, she was still working in the White House, the war was still happening, and Franklin Roosevelt was still President. Now, none of those things are true. She’s just thankful that she still has a job at the Times and that Allison is still her roommate, so at least she can pretend some things are normal.

This time last month she’d been in the White House for her weekly briefing with the First Lady. She misses the other women in the Corps, misses the intimate moments she had witnessed, the love stories she had seen flourish. She misses the familiar path to the East Room, the train ride down to the Capitol. She misses the President’s voice, the comforting and familiar, the feeling of turning on the radio after a long day and hearing him speak as she cooked dinner.

What she doesn’t miss one bit is the fear, the terror, the emptiness that made a home inside her bones and the darkness that shadowed her city. She still worries for Stiles, though she know he’ll make it home. The city feels alive again. Stores are selling new merchandise. She went out for drinks with Allison and Isaac the night before and the bar was as crowded as it was before the war, though the people drinking were still mostly women. She’d had a ball dancing, feeling lighter than she had in ages. The war being over lifted a weight that she had not known existed from her soul. She laughed more, too, Allison and her falling into the pattern they had had before the war of late nights of drinking wine and gossip. Until the pieces of her old life started returning, Lydia had not realized quite how much she’d set aside and forgotten about.

But her new life, the one where she was confident in her abilities, secure in her power, where she knew brilliant women and knew what it was like to love an incredible man, that life would remain as the pieces of the life she’d almost forgot about slowly came floating back in. Never was that more clear than as she headed to visit Eleanor Roosevelt in Hyde Park.

She arrives, still thinking about the announcement she’d heard on someone’s radio that a large group of soldiers from London would be arriving tonight. She always goes to those because she doesn’t know what ship Stiles is on. She only knows that he’d be arriving in mid-May.

“Hello, Mrs. Roosevelt,” She greets the former First Lady, sitting in a lawn chair and watching Mr. Roosevelt’s dog, Fala, immediately run up to her. She grins, reaching down to run her fingers through the coarse, yet beautiful black hair.

“He likes you, Ms. Martin. And, please, I’m not your boss anymore. Call me Eleanor.”

“Then you must call me Lydia.”

Eleanor merely smiles as she watches the beautiful oak sway in the distance.

“I can see why you and the President loved it here,” Lydia comments. “It’s beautiful.”

“Peaceful, I find is a better description. As a writer, you know very well that beauty is in the eye of beholder, but it is hard to argue that this place isn’t peaceful.”

Lydia nods and moves to ask a question on how the First Lady’s work with the refugees and the survivors of the death camps was going, but Eleanor asks a question before she can ask.

“What is it like to be in love?” She asks, sounding surprisingly wistful.

Lydia almost does a double take, careful not to let the shock show on her face. She knows that Eleanor and Hick loved each other. It was the worst kept secret in the Women’s Press Corps. But as she mulls it over, trying to find the right words, she recalls how with the two women it always seemed like their feelings were never in sync. They just didn’t meet at the right time.

“Well to me, love is the star that guides me home. It is the candle that shines even as darkness threatens to overwhelm. It is the feeling of home and peace. Stiles is my anchor in the storm that is this world and he offers me shelter when the rain and pain of living gets too much. Being in love means knowing the other person in their soul, it means laughter that breaks through tears, it means understanding the worst parts of your partner and still being able to have faith in them. Love isn’t about what they deserve. It’s about knowing that you deserve everything they are giving you.”

“Beautiful. You really have a way with words,” Eleanor breaths out, looking at Lydia with barely concealed awe.

She blushes, looking down at her hands before she moves to ask a question about the death camp survivors and other news from the warfront as the Allies swept through enemy territory. After a very productive and convivial afternoon, Lydia heads back, going straight to the docks.

When she arrives, she sees what looks like hundreds of women waiting to see if the men they loved are returning home. She smiles as she remembers that if Stiles returns home, she will have the apartment to herself. Allison is staying with Isaac tonight. God, she wants him home and safe and she wants to feel his body against hers. She peers ahead and hears loud cheers. The ship had docked safely and the men were coming off of the ship in droves. Lydia grins as the crowd surges forward, women racing to find husbands, lovers, fathers, and sons and if Lydia wasn’t so focused on seeing if Stiles is _finally_ here, she’d been writing this down. The jubilation and love in the air is euphoric, but suddenly the world seems to narrow down to a single face. She would recognize that mole and that hair anywhere.

_Stiles._

She lets out a choked sob as her heart leaps to her throat and she starts running, darting past reunion after reunion before she crashes into him. She nearly knocks him to the ground and has to laugh because she, albeit accidently, almost recreated the moment they met for the first time. Stiles looks at her, like he’s drinking her in, like he can’t believe she’s real.

She can’t stand it, she needs to kiss him, she needs to feel him against her, she _needs_.

Stiles is clearly feeling the same way because he dips her and kisses her. His mouth is open and passionate against her own and she feels like she wants to stay in this moment forever because he’s _here_ and he’s kissing her. Her hands move to his hair, curling in the bottom edges as her other hand traces his cheek. One hand and a strong forearm remain holding her pressed against him while the other grips her hair. She doesn’t want to breath, she doesn’t want to pull away but eventually she has to. They fall into each other’s arms, holding on to each other like they are the other’s lifeline. Stiles’s hand traces her face, staring at her like she’s a goddess and he’s scared she’ll fade away. Lydia laces their hands together, tucking her head under his chin and sighing in contentment.

“Marry me?” He whispers as they pull back from their second kiss, a little less desperate than the first, but Lydia still feels like her heart is racing dangerously quickly.

“Yes!” She gasps out, entwining their hands and leading them away from the crowd. She wants him and she feels as though she’ll burn for wanting him if they don’t find a place soon.

“Headed back to your place?” Stiles whispers in her ear, dropping a kiss along her collarbone as he follows her.

“Yes.”

By the time they reach the apartment, Lydia has already kissed Stiles in the stairwell, her hands pulling at his shirt as his hands slowly, achingly, pushed up her skirt. Stiles grins at her, taking the lead as he pushes her on the bed where she falls, hair spread out on the pillows like a halo. She helps him push her skirt off her body, peeling it off and Stiles looks he has just seen heaven as he looks at her. She grabs him by the shirt collar, pulling up to kiss him softly, sweetly. It’s a contrast to his fingers that are stretching her pussy and getting her ready for him. She is dripping as he rips her shirt off, her hands shrugging of his. The pile of clothes at the edge of the bed is slowly growing as he shimmies out of his trousers. Then he kisses her again, quickly this time, smirking as he begins to make his way downward. He spends several long minutes feasting at her breast, rolling and sucking until she’s practically incoherent and gushing. He starts moving downward still but as much as Lydia wants to feel his talented tongue bring her to the brink of pleasure what she _needs_ is his cock inside her. She pulls on his hair, slowly dragging him back up to her and with one look at her expression he knows what she’s asking for. Hands are still running through his hair, tracing his abs as he thrusts into her.

“I love you,” He gasps out, and she swallows up those words greedily as he buries himself in her.

“I love you.”

She breathes the words into him, nails raking up his back as she runs a hand through his hair. He rises, hovering above her to build the anticipation and then he falls back, thrusting himself inside her and she feels herself tightening around him, clenching as he comes and she milks him dry.

“ _Lydia, Lydia_.”

He sounds helpless, in love and completely at her mercy, and then his mouth moves to suck on her breast and the combination of pleasure has her falling apart.

“Stiles, Stiles. Oh my god, _Stiles,_ ” She moans, arching her back and then he kisses her again. He kisses her like she’s his oxygen and she kisses back like he’s the best story she’d ever heard and together they start to heal.

They have the rest of their lives to learn each other again, to mend the aches and tell the tales.

As she falls asleep to rise and fall of his heartbeat, she knows there is one thing that will remain true wherever they are, they will, always, always, be each other’s strength.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from Start of Time by Gabrielle Aplin

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> Come say hi to me on [tumblr](http://the-ships-to-rule-them-all.tumblr.com)


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